


Tell it Like it Is

by indiachick



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen, I think this is a poem, and is probably Dean/Hell, and it probably merits a boyking!Sam tag, blank!verse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-10
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 20:31:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1177594
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/indiachick/pseuds/indiachick
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Um. Blank-verse poem-thing about Dean as kind of a Charon-esque ferryman in Hell, Sam's probably up to no good and planning to raze Hell or something,  and the poor dude on Dean's boat is getting more than he bargained for.</p><p>Now with <a href="http://amber1960.livejournal.com/208576.html">gorgeous art </a> by amber1960!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Tell it Like it Is

 1.

 

  
Ask Dean what Hell is  
and he tells it like it is  
no hagiography, no spangled lace-froth  
of adjectives--only verity  
veracity,  
clarity, like cancer of the soul.

They say he has a simplicity  
about things that are not simple, about  
 _gods_  
 _monsters_  
 _brothers_

and Hell is a super-nova, Hell can fit

_in the pocket of your jacket_  
 _the heart of your brother_  
 _under your tongue_  
 _everywhere_

Hell is a parsec, a fibre in quark-foam  
Hell is a gluon and Hell is a red-giant  
Hell will lick your bones clean and  
give you  
clarity, like cancer of the soul.

Dean will tell you  
like it is.

Be sure to keep both legs  
beyond the pentagram.  
Demons will lie, will try  
            to spill your blood  
            to buy your soul  
            to stack the family  
                in one wagon, like Black Death victims  
                all limbs arranged  
                neatly together  
                dangling vessels  
                separate from hearts.

You have our disclaimer.  
Read carefully before investing.

2.

The Styx is cold  
you can call it what you want  
 _vaitarini_  
 _sanzu_  
the river of Hell has very many names  
but this is only the first--  
there are seven more.

Hold onto your bones  
because you can.  
Only here.  
When I row you to the Phlegethon  
they will  
        bubble  
        break free      
        split to give:  
             cells, atoms, miniscule things  
 _(Do bones have DNA?_  
 _Cop shows never taught me that.)_

 

They are only calcium after all  
we burn with a thousand uranium suns.  
No coolants for our chain reaction.

_(The truth is_  
 _I will rescue you._  
 _Flay open your skin_  
 _to pick at your sins)_

Hey, you will get hurt.  
It's not my fault  
in 1969, you  killed a hippy girl  
 _choked her_  
 _mauled her_  
 _murdered her_  
 _and she with a peony on her lips_  
 _last you saw her_  
your sister.

What do you call it,  
the killing of a sister?

Don't try to jump in the river.  
I am good at fishing.  
I have bait.

Listen.  
I had a brother.  
I was the roadrunner to Hell's coyote  
Acme finally did its job--  
          (-- not on me--)  
I signed a lease  
          (--because _Sammy_ \--)  
now the coyote  
         chews me up  
         spits me out  
         chews me up  
         spits me out  
         rinse, repeat  
         washing machine cycle  
         too many coins in the Laundromat  
         Sixth-Sense Technology  
         (wash me till I'm atom-clean)

I had a brother.  
You killed your sister.  
There is a sad poetry here  
        between us  
I seek to forget  
through violence.

Can I interest you with some pomegranate seeds?  
Hell offers you permanent lodging.  
We are Grecian in our hospitality.

 3.

Hey there. Hi. Hey.  
You get to ask a question.

Who am I?

Why, I am:  
       ridiculous  
       unlovely  
       what is left  
              once a nuclear inferno  
              has razed the ground  
       Play-doh-malleable  
       tawdry  
       glittering cheapskate jewelry.

I tell it like it is.  
It is my flaw.  
They can't take it out of me.

I tell you:  
entropy will take us all  
in the end.  
Unravel, unthread  
He is the needle that unspools us.  
Mass-produced, cookie-cutter  
All-American male.  
Our own  
Kansas-born Messiah  
Don't scoff at me--  
listen now, it's a prophecy.

I am still figuring out  
where we went wrong.  
       (Where I--  
           Where he--)

Till then Hell is:

    too many 1940s chicks  
    liars and programmers  
    copyright infringers  
    poachers with animal tusks--  
              through their small intestines  
              like pearls through flesh   
    --angry misguided demons--  
              shoving deadbeat soul-heads into   
              non-literal toilets.  
     --angry fallen stars--  
             rattling their cages  
             unmindful of their own brightness  
     men with brothers  
     men with dead sisters  
     men--  
     (women too--  
         here at last that willful monster  
            --equality--    
        is cornered. We sin alike,  
            who knew?)  
  
Hell gives you  
clarity, like cancer of the soul.  
We do not categorize  
(or cauterize)  
  
We are expanding.  
The universe, the cosmos, the metaphysical  
cthonic underground.  
We are expanding,  
unthreading,  
our matter-energy equation  
will not hold for long.  
We will burn.  
Cease.  
And I will be the only phoenix.  
The only one looked for.  
He knows.  
I know.  
Listen now, it's a prophecy.

Take comfort.  
I will row.  
You just focus  
 on keeping your bones.

Easy to lose things here.  
Bones, brains, memory.

I tell it like it is.

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
